No Second Acts

We were doing great, at least up until late July. Then we began to argue—not about sex or money, but politics. The Johnson and Goldwater presidential campaigns were heating up and we took opposing sides—me for Goldwater, Frannie for LBJ. Being as passionate about our political views as we were for each other and possessing equally strong egos, we couldn't just agree to disagree. She believed those negative campaign ads that portrayed Goldwater as a war monger. But what we argued over most was civil rights. Brought up in an upscale, lily-white suburb, and schooled at private institutions, she could afford to be a flaming liberal when it came to integration. My middle-class family still lived in Oakridge, a World War One-era city neighborhood of single homes that once was very nice. Then, starting in the late 1950s, Negro families started moving in. Whites moved out, trickled out at first, then stampeded out when crime soared and the quality of the local public schools declined. In 1964, Oakridge was about seventy percent Negro. It would be another three years before our family got out. Meanwhile, we kept our doors locked (unheard of just a few years before) and kept off the streets at night. I wasn't against integration in principle. Even diehard conservatives like me had to concede that Negros had been, for hundreds of years, denied rights that white people took for granted. But, unlike Frannie and her liberal ilk, I wasn't blind to the cultural differences that kept integration from working the way its idealistic proponents had hoped. We resorted to name calling when our discussions got really heated. "You're a racist," she once yelled. "And you're a naïve, limousine liberal," I shot back.

The Harlem race riots in mid-July, triggered by the killing of a Negro teen by police, sickened me. To my way of thinking, it gave the rioters an excuse to burn and loot, to invade businesses and walk out with "free" merchandise. Frannie said she could understand it, blamed it on white racism and the pent-up frustrations of people that were kept down for so long. Us Jews were discriminated against for years, yet we didn't riot, I'd argue. Yes, but Jews are white, and we weren't enslaved in this country for over two centuries, she'd counter. I conceited that fact. Still, we continued to argue as the Harlem riot precipitated riots in other cities. It got to the point where we couldn't seem to talk about anything else.

Then, on a Saturday night in the second week of August, something happened which put her bleeding-heart liberalism to the test. We saw Roy Orbison perform at the downtown Civic Auditorium, located in a relatively safe area in the central business district. However, the neighborhood just east of it wasn't so safe. Known as the Eastside Ghetto, it stretched east and northeast for a couple miles—blocks and blocks of crumbling, century-old row homes where heroin flowed freely and groups of angry young black men prowled the streets. At times, some of those kids would become predators and wander into the area around the Civic Auditorium, looking for people to rob. That night, while walking to my car, parked blocks away, they targeted us. We had just turned a corner, when we were confronted by three of these hoodlums. They wouldn't let us pass. They weren't physically imposing, and had I been alone, I'd have made a break for it, either running through them or around them. Frannie, of course, didn't have that option. They called Frannie names; "gimpy leg" and "limp bitch" are two I recall. Then they demanded our wallets. Frannie, with her usual spunk, told them to go to hell. One of them then stepped forward and pushed her down. Then another kicked her in the head, knocking her unconscious. Enraged to the point of going insane, I grabbed Frannie's cane and started swinging. I clobbered one across the chest and another across the knees. The third took off running, soon followed by his two cowardly cohorts.

Kneeling down, I held her for a minute or so before she started to come out of it. "That cane does have its advantages," she joked after I told her what happened. She complained of a splitting headache and felt too dizzy to walk the rest of the way. So I carried her to the car, and then drove directly to a hospital emergency room. Police showed up to take a report (they never caught the punks). Fortunately, she was released with nothing more serious than a mild concussion.

She cried on the way home, mostly because she was so disillusioned. "There are bad white people, too," I said in a token effort to make her feel better. Of course, there were plenty of bad white people as liberals loved to point out. But what they either failed to acknowledge or excused away was the statistic that showed young black males committing violent crime disproportionate to their numbers. Frannie didn't exactly jump into the conservative camp after that, but it did sober her to an ugly reality that existed in many American cities, one that still exists. Best of all, it stopped our bickering over racial politics.

We got closer during those last two weeks of summer, exchanging words of love "so soft and tender," as The Mamas and The Papas would sing later on. "Looks like we've come full circle," I said on our last date before both of us left for school. It was a hot and humid, late August night and we were parked along that gravel road by the lake, the same place I took her on our first date. A few days before, Frannie had hinted that she might be ready to go all the way with me, so I had brought a blanket along just in case. This time she wore a skirt, an unusually short skirt hemmed at mid-thigh. After spreading the blanket beside a thick oak tree, we got into it. As we hugged and kissed, my body heat rose, along with my expectations. Still, I didn't take anything for granted, not through the hugging and kissing, not through the oral sex and not even as I rubbed my stiff cock over her swollen clit. We'd been down this road before, and she managed some artful dodging to block my way home. It's only when she asked if I had brought "protection" that I felt confident she was ready, that this was the night we'd finally do it. However, I soon realized that the condom I thought was in my wallet was still at home, buried in my sock drawer.

"Lot of good your Trojans are doing us now," she said in frustration, punching the ground with her fist. "Damn it, Barry, tonight of all nights to forget." Breathing heavy, she lay flat on her back with her bra off, her panties pulled down around her ankle and her skirt pulled up around her waist. We were both primed to go. The only thing missing...

I shook my head and cursed myself for being so absentminded. "I blew it, I know. Tonight of all nights."

She sat up and took my head in her hands. "Well, we're not leaving here until you make love to me. Just make sure you pull out before your little spermies jump the fence."

She could hardly wait as she made clear by grabbing the legs of my Bermuda shorts and yanking them down past my knees. Quickly, I slipped out of them and then climbed on top of her. That brace made it impossible for her to fully wrap her legs around me the way Betsy used to do. No matter, I made do by tucking my hand under her butt and lifting it slightly to get more penetration. "Oh my god," she shrieked, "this is better than I ever imagined. Give it to me Barry, give it to me. Shove that hungry penis into my hungry pussy."

And so I did. Easing my cock into her, I kissed her and gazed down at her beautiful face, wanton and beaded with sweat. Caught up as I was in my emotional and erotic passion, I maintained enough presence of mind to savor every minute of it, to freeze-frame this precious time we had together, to record in my memory the soft feel of her body against mine, the fresh, exciting smell of her, the eerie sounds of the crickets and birds amid our moans and heavy breathing and whispers of I love you. I was all too aware that we'd soon be saying our goodbyes. So I stayed in her a couple minutes after her climax, controlling myself until I no longer could, finally pulling out and then shooting my "spermies" on her chest and stomach.

She sat up and said, "You know, as an English major I should have no problem describing how fantastic you just made me feel. But words fail me." She leaned in to kiss me. Then she said, "Are you up for a second round?"

I wasn't, at least not then, not until she got me "up," using her mouth and hands. This time, I tried a novel position—sitting up with Frannie on top, facing me. Leaning against the tree for support, I was able to free my hands to lift her up and down as I worked my tongue over her nipples and she danced joyously on my cock. It took me longer to come this time—round two always takes longer—and I couldn't help but feel anxious, wondering if any cum had managed, in her words, to jump the fence.

Jokingly, I asked her what she'd do if she got pregnant. "Marry you, what else?" she said, her light tone matching mine. "Don't worry. Good Jewish girls don't get pregnant before marriage."

"Good Jewish girls stay virgins until marriage," I said. "Or so society would have us believe."

"Well, this good Jewish girl just broke the mold. Only don't tell our parents."

I didn't. In fact, I didn't tell anybody, not even a good buddy of mine who talked about "conquests" that I suspected were more fantasy than reality.

I missed Frannie terribly after school started, and looked forward to the long Thanksgiving weekend when we'd be able to see each other again. Letters and phone calls helped. We exchanged long love letters on yellow legal paper and saved our quarters so we could speak to each other from the pay phones in our dorms. One such letter arrived in late September, informing me that she had missed her period. "But don't be alarmed," she wrote, "I've missed before. Just my peculiar menstrual cycle, I guess."

I went about the business of being a college student trying, unsuccessfully, to take her advice. Don't be alarmed? Then why even mention it? What if she WAS pregnant? I was hardly ready for marriage and didn't think Frannie was either. So that meant either having the child out of wedlock, putting it up for adoption or getting an abortion. The various options played in my head as I sweated out the next few weeks.

Then she called me in mid-October with the news: "See Barry, I told you it was nothing to worry about. My period just started." She giggled and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The day after Thanksgiving, Frannie invited me over her house for dinner—nothing unusual about that, because at this point the Ottensteins treated me almost like family. Her parents considered me a hero after what happened downtown following the Roy Orbison concert. But why couldn't she give me a definitive answer when I suggested we take in a movie afterwards? We both liked The Beatles, and neither of us had seen "A Hard Day's Night," then playing at a nearby theater. "We'll see," she said over the phone. "Right now it's just dinner."

Frannie greeted me at the door, and we fell into each other's arms. Then she began to cry. "I'm just so glad to see you," she said when I asked what was wrong. Perhaps, but something wasn't quite right. Her parents and sister acted weird, too. While eating Thanksgiving leftovers, they all seemed to be putting on some kind of masquerade, hiding a somber reality behind a mask of cheerfulness.

"We didn't want to spoil your dinner," her dad said after we all repaired to the living room. "But now that we've eaten, Frannie has something to tell you that we just learned yesterday ourselves."

"Look out, here it comes," Barbara said, hiding her face in her hands. Sixteen-year old Barbara, while not strikingly beautiful like Frannie, was cute as a button. She wore her straight, light brown hair in a helmet cut, with the ends tucked under her jaw and the front a mass of bangs that swept over her forehead from top to eyebrows. Like Frannie, she had a small mouth and seductive, light brown eyes. Standing around five-foot two, she had a nice little bod under that plaid skirt she wore with a white blouse. Dark nylon hose covered her full but shapely legs.

I sank into their leather upholstered, brown La-Z-Boy and braced myself, still clueless about all the fuss. Then Frannie uttered two words that changed my life: "I'm pregnant."

In light of what she told me over the phone, it failed to fully register. "You can't be, not with having your period."

"I lied. I couldn't bring myself to tell you, knowing it would ruin your semester. Before last night, no one knew except the Massachusetts doctor who confirmed it." Her stomach had yet to show the telltale bulge through her blue dress, a convenience for girls like Frannie who saw fit to delay the news.

"Guess I didn't pull out fast enough," I quipped, spitting it out the side of my mouth like grapeshot. Her parents shot me an admonishing look. I apologized, then said, "Okay, so now what? Where do we go from here?"

"Now what? You get married, that's now what," her dad said, wagging his finger at me. "If you two are old enough to make a baby, then you're old enough to take the responsibility of raising one."

"They're still in school, David," her mom said sympathetically.

"So they'll drop out of school and Barry will go to work for Albert full time."

Irene started to say something when Frannie cut in. "Look, right now this is between and Barry and I. So, if you don't mind, we're going to see that Beatles movie. Let's go, Barry, it will help clear our heads."

"Sure, anything you say," I said, hardly in the mood to see a movie but eager to escape this house that had become a pressure cooker.

To say the drive to the theater was tense would be an understatement. Try as I might, I couldn't get Frannie to give me a definitive answer about what she wanted to do. "I'm not sure, Barry, I need more time," she repeated.

"If only I had remembered to bring those condoms that night," I said, smacking the steering wheel.

"Maybe you left them home on purpose. Ever think of that? I mean, why would you forget them when you knew I was ready to sleep with you?"

That got me pissed. "What are you saying, Frannie, that I harbored a subliminal urge to be a dad at age twenty so I could curtail my college education? That makes zero sense."

"I don't know, Barry, it's just strange that you should forget them, that's all."

"Okay, so it's strange. But guess what? I'm not ready for marriage and kids at this stage of my life. All right?!"

"Stop yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling!" Of course, I was and it brought Frannie to tears. She was still crying when I pulled into the movie parking lot. After cutting the ignition, I reached over and hugged her. "Look, I'm sorry I blew up. Let's just go in and enjoy ourselves. Or at least try. Okay?"

I felt I had just lived through my own hard day's night watching the antics of these four beloved Brits who had changed the culture virtually overnight. I tried to relax, tried to lose myself in the kinetic action and the happy music, munching on popcorn, chuckling on the outside while sinking into a dark lament, questioning if I truly loved Frannie Ottenstein. If love meant making the sort of commitment that her dad had insisted on, then maybe I didn't. Still, it felt so good when she hooked her arm into mine and rested her head on my shoulder. She felt so warm and, as usual, she smelled really good. If we were married, we could be doing this naked in a comfortable bed, I thought. But...

When we got in the car, Frannie said, "Look, Barry, I've got to be honest with you. I don't think I'll be returning to school right away because...I want this baby, our baby. Don't fret over what my dad said. If you're not ready to get married, then you shouldn't. Frankly, I'm not either. I want to finish my education too, you know. Polio made me realize at a young age that bad things can happen to you at any time, that things don't have to work out like you think they would or should. I've always wanted kids, though I didn't expect to be having one until I was settled."

"Settled?"

"Settled. Married with a college degree under my belt and hopefully a career."

"You've told me about your plans to become an English professor or a lawyer. Have you given up on those dreams?"

"Not in the least. I didn't apply to Mount Holyoke with the idea of quitting. I'll get where I want to go, it will just take me a little longer to get there. I'm used to that," she added, pointing to her braced leg. "I've thought of other options, abortion, if I could find a doctor willing to do it, or giving it up for adoption. But then I might not be given the opportunity to have another child. Like I said, polio taught me to take nothing for granted, not my health, not the people I love, not anything."

Now that I knew where she stood, I had to figure out what my next move should be. I wanted to do right by Frannie, if not marry her than at least pay child support. That would mean using my savings from my summer job, plus working part time while in school. Initially, both my parents were livid after I returned home with the news.

"Way to screw up your life, Barry," mom said.

"Was it worth it, son, was it worth getting a little tail for landing in this mess?" dad said.

But then they calmed down the more we talked about it. "Well, I guess we should look on the bright side," mom concluded. "We're going to be grandparents."

That weekend, our parents huddled together to discuss the situation. David, Frannie's dad, still insisted we should marry, while mom and dad supported me in my decision not to, at least until after I graduated. Frannie would withdraw from Mount Holyoke with the idea of returning within a year after the baby was born. Meanwhile, she'd live at home, work part time for her dad and perhaps take courses at a community college.

Monday, I returned to my state university, forty miles away. On weekends I came home to be with Frannie. We saw more of each other over winter break. That's when the reality of becoming a dad really sank in, because by then she was beginning to show. "To a healthy baby," we toasted over flutes of champagne while watching the ball drop in Times Square. Winter segued into spring and then, on May 29th, 1965, Mitchell Fitzgerald Silberman was born, seven pounds, nine ounces. We couldn't resist naming him after the recently murdered JFK. After all, they were born on the same day. Irene joked that he'd be the first Jewish-Irish American president.

Two weeks later, I donned cap and gown for graduation ceremonies from college. Frannie left the baby with her parents and their nanny to help me celebrate. Marriage was out for now because Frannie planned to return to school in the fall. Meanwhile, my student deferment had expired. I was now 1-A, subject to the draft unless I got my butt into graduate school. LBJ had escalated the Vietnam War, thus reneging on his campaign promise to keep American boys out of conflicts that Asian boys should fight themselves. However, being a Goldwater conservative, I felt we should be there. I swallowed hook, line and sinker our government's line about fighting the war to contain the spread of communism.

Frannie felt betrayed by LBJ's perfidy. Once again, we took opposing positions on a major issue. "It's a civil war. We have no business there," she argued. Aware of my tentative plans to join the service, she said, "You have a young son to think about, not to mention that I don't want the man I love getting shot up over there."

Enlisting in the Army fulfilled my patriotic call to duty. Frannie accepted it, grudgingly. After all, she did what she wanted also by returning to Mount Holyoke. She hated to leave four-month old Mitch, yet she also wanted to graduate at least by the end of fall semester 1966. Lucky for her, her parents could afford a full time nanny to shore-up help from our parents. For me, it was off to boot camp, followed by special combat training, and then off to the Central Highlands of Vietnam to fight with the 101st Airborne. During a search and destroy mission, I took a piece of shrapnel in the thigh. It was painful but nothing serious. However, my wound didn't hurt nearly as much as that Dear John I received from Frannie while recuperating.